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I miss the drunk, |
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I miss the fiend |
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I miss the simplicity of addiction and the scene |
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I miss wandering aimlessly in half dead sewers |
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With rats for eyes chewing on forgiveness and the will to apologize |
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I miss the return of no return as |
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I burn in avalanche of white snow and yellow cocaine |
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I miss talking to brick walls while following the grain |
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And human dolls as |
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I plagiarize myself like a dummy |
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Stuffed with counterfeit money for |
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Cairo and black honey |
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I miss illusions begging to be chased |
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Even as they disappear into me erased |
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Until there is no one or nothing but the chase |
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And a powdery ghost with no face or faith |
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And the woman of my dream disappearing without grace |
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Rob from always on the run is so bad and copy paste is a sin |
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I Miss The |
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Zoo I Miss |
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The Zoo I |
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Miss The Zoo |
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I miss evolving into a cloud of blue marijuana |
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Blown from the lips of hookers and pimps |
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As they smack each other down in alleys for the dammed but mighty |
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With no one but the weak around and the beautiful unsightly |
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I miss numb |
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Neanderthals marching in rows of living dead |
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From my wisdom teeth to |
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Spain and back again in my head |
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I miss salvation in syringes and angels of mercy |
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In blooms of smoke numbing rain which drinks when thirsty |
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I miss glasses full of spirits who without tongues speak to me of napoleons wild nights |
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I miss staying up for days and becoming a psychic pretzel flying kites |
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Chewed on by a |
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Zulu heading with toads to mars |
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A mysterious prison and one without bars |
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I Miss The |
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Zoo I Miss |
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The Zoo I |
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Miss The Zoo |
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I miss waking in the arms of strangers like puppies |
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Just born in the pound to a dead mother with eyes sealed shut |
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Looking for a tit to suck and other dangers |
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When only the night before laughter was the only pursuit |
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Even as knives carved up our backs and demons sat like |
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Buddhas eating fruit |
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Meditating on hate forever in our minds |
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I miss exposing my bones and the need that rewinds |
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Even my burning home, even my gutted inner child |
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Even my dead grandfather beneath the ground that's wild |
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Even my criminal family, even my weedwacker thoughts |
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Whipping a thin plastic string to cut the ears of others as |
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I sing I miss van |
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Gogh's revenge, |
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I miss his nightly binge |
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I miss spiders surrounding my bed and lifting me as if an effigy |
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Or a Dead |
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King or a prophet of doom |
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A Jesus for the apocalypse wearing dirt like perfume |
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Or a mother for |
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Satan or a ghost for all the children of abuse |
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And taking me into the fire watching me burn like a goose |
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As they sing in spider voices |
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There goes creation, there goes the moon |
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There goes the butterfly wanting a cocoon |
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I miss being a bloom and a goon [?] too soon, in the afternoon |
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A doctor of regret |
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Hanging onto guitar strings in tune |
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And hanging by a belt wrapped around some pipe to nowhere and felt |
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My lips too wrapped around what appears to be stained glass |
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As religious figures dress like rocks with class |
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Burn into gas to the center of my brain |
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The euphoria of dying and being born all at once |
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While wearing the hat that reads 'dunce' |
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I Miss The |
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Zoo I Miss |
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The Zoo I |
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Miss The Zoo |